the day you left.

every day, the same image,
playing in my mind like a
movie reel.
sometimes, it flickers,
cigarette burns.
but always the same scene
with the same ending and
the same pain,
replaying.

the winchester pub.

you'd know her when she
walks through the door,
head down, back erect.
the sway of her hips says she's
got experience but
the shift of her eyes tells a
modest tale. it's true
she doesn't have much but she's
got the best intentions.
and all she needs to know
is if she wants it to
hurt.

that word you can't remember.

i love the smell of formaldehyde on a
friday afternoon,
the feel of heavy white coats and
the weight of you on my mind.
as i busily slip away i
realize i never really followed
social politics.
i see i can't erase you
from my thoughts and i
smile.